j.a. van wagner :: wordobject :: imagetime

And then we would be in another place, with little notice, which was in time easy to accept, that we would be in one place and then another, separated by little but the closing and opening of our eyes. 


So transfers were timed with the intermittent halting of our journey and the eggs, or packages, were lifted out of the bed of the truck with great care, for which we were enlisted to help, preparing us, we believed, for the day when we alone would drive and stop and lift and transfer, with, who knows, another beside us, one day. 


On the other side of these transactions were shapes so much darker, the receiving figures so much blurrier, than ours, while we, in our radiance, high up in the bed of the truck, gave off eggs as the sun dispenses its light, or packages, in which were things unseen; possibly guns, or bread, or nuclear locks detached from their doors, into space, and space alone swallowed them up. 
Such was the darkness below, where the others came to take, their arms rising out of the dim of shapelessness, and such was the fury with which they clamored, that we could see how their lips held back their teeth. 


The fear now is that we will not know when we are there, and we will carry these forever.